Houghton, her husband--they can only stay
until two o'clock." The hotel table, usually more than ample to
accommodate its guests, was not nearly large enough for all who
followed to the dining-room, so the smiling host placed another table
across the end for many who had intended to lunch at home that day.
Meantime, our little party was seated, with Mr. Houghton at the head of
the table, I at his right; grandpa opposite me, and grandma at my
right. She was supremely happy, would fold her hands in her lap and
say, "If you please," and "Thank you," as I served her; and I was
grateful that she claimed my attention, for grandpa's lips were mute.
He strove for calm, endeavoring to eat that he might the better conceal
the unbidden tears which coursed down his cheeks. Not until we reached
a secluded retreat for our farewell talk, did his emotion express
itself in words. Grasping my husband's hand he said:
"My friend, I must leave you. I broke bread and tasted salt with you,
but I am too heartsick to visit, or to say good-bye. You bring back my
child, a bride, and I have no home to welcome her in, no wedding feast,
or happiness to offer. I must see and talk with her in the house of
strangers, and it makes me suffer more than I can bear! But before I
go, I want you both to make me the promise that you will always work
together, and have but one home, one purse, one wish in life, so that
when you be old, you will not have to walk separately like we do.
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